


Nightmares

by SnowyWolff



Series: Confident in Romance [7]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Nationverse, Nightmares, spamano week 2018, they're not really dating yet but Spain WANTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 01:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15108608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: Sometimes there are bad days. Sometimes Spain has horrible nightmares. Sometimes Romano is there to make things better.





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7 - Comfort/Healing
> 
> Note: country and human names not used interchangeably

Spain isn't sure what triggered it this time. Maybe it was the grand opening of the exhibition on the Civil War in the _Museo de Historia de Madrid_. Maybe it was the discussion on the monument of Franco flaring to life once more. Maybe his economy hit a low point yet again.

But he is tired. Tired and empty. He just wants to curl up in bed and not face the world. To not face his government and having to try and explain that he wasn't feeling well, that they should really consider investing more into restoring the economy. Not that they would listen. They never do. Humans are so caught up in their own affairs that they don't even care about their own country anymore.

Spain is tired, but he is still the Kingdom of Spain. So he hauls himself out of the comfort and safety of his blankets, finds something decent to wear and slumps down the stairs.

His aide is waiting on the curb, impatiently tapping his foot against the concrete. Spain always thinks the man is too tightly wired and normally he would have smiled and cheerfully bid him good day. Today, however, he just barely manages a shaky smile before he slips in the backseat.

The man—Spain can't recall his name; his mind is too jumbled—stands outside for a moment longer before sitting in the driver’s seat. He shoots a worried look across his shoulder as he puts the car into first gear. Spain ignores him, staring out of the window and hoping that the day would pass quickly. Maybe he could sneak in a nap too. That'd be nice.

The drive to work is hell. It’s too loud, too much and Spain closes his eyes until they reach the government building in Madrid.

He doesn't waste any time in scrambling out of the car and into the building, begging to God for a calm and easy working day. But this was politics, and politics were never calm and easy.

After three hours of meetings and debates, he is finally released for a lunch break. He spends it in his little office, head on his desk, hoping desperately for his headache to go away.

When he is once more fetched to sign important legal documents, he almost passes out as he stands up. He manages to catch himself on the desk and smiles at the secretary giving him a worried, but cursory glance. It wouldn't do for the Kingdom of Spain to faint. The humans would go into an unnecessary (but actually very necessary) tizzy.

Five o’clock sends a wave of relief through Spain’s body that is only partially caused by the collective relief of his people. He stumbles down the stairs, then trips and splays out across the carpet in front of the reception desk.

His head is spinning, his ears are ringing, and it takes him a moment to recognize the polished leather shoes gently poking his face.

“Oi, stupid, did you actually lose your brain?”

Normally, it is a blessing when Romano comes to visit, but now? Spain wants nothing more than to curl up in a ball in his bed and not think for a long, long while. He doesn't have the mental capacity to dance his and Romano’s complicated steps of “are we flirting or are we actually dating or is it really just all in my head?”

Slowly, Spain sits, touching his forehead. His headache has grown into a full blown migraine by now and he winces at the simple thought alone.

A hand swipes his own away from his forehead. Golden eyes regard him solemnly as Romano moves his free hand up to check Spain’s temperature.

Romano hisses and he pulls his hand back, scowling as he squatted in front of Spain. “You look like shit.”

Spain laughs, but it lacks any usual humour. “Feel like it too,” he says.

Romano observes him quietly for a long moment before sighing. He stands, pats down his pockets in silent aggravation before he takes a handful of Spain’s suit and hauls him to his feet. There is a shocked murmur from the receptionist, but honestly Spain is rather thankful. He doesn't think he could have gotten up on his own anymore.

Romano drags him outside after a quick wink and smile at the receptionist and all but throws Spain into the passenger seat of his Lamborghini. It takes Spain about the time it takes for Romano to buckle his belt, start the engine and set the car rolling down the parking lot to fasten his own seatbelt.

He lets his head loll against the window, closing his eyes against the scenery speeding by. It is the best way to both survive Romano’s driving and minimize input for his poor, suffering brain.

Soon enough they arrive back at Spain’s mansion just outside the city. Romano parks the car right outside the gate, crunching unto the gravel without a second thought.

Spain watches Romano get out of the car, not entirely grasping it’s expected of him as well. It isn't until Romano opens the door on his side that Spain’s brain catches up and he releases his belt. He takes Romano’s surprisingly thoughtful hand and follows him inside the house like a lost lamb.

Romano leaves him in the hallway, shrugging off his suit jacket as he strides toward the kitchen. Spain is too tired to be curious and meanders toward the living room. When his knees hit the couch, he collapsed, closing his eyes to blessed darkness.

He wakes two hours later, according to Romano sitting in the large armchair by the hearth. He glances up from his iPhone (a gift from Veneziano), scowling as Spain rolls right off the couch in an attempt to escape the drool-covered pillow.

Groaning, he touches his forehead because somehow his migraine has gotten much, much worse. Romano ends up once more at his side, looming over him in silent reproach. It takes him a moment to understand the Italian being said to him.

“I'm not hungry,” Spain mutters, “but thank you for offering, Roma. So kind of you…”

“It wasn't a question,” Romano snaps.

He's gone again the next moment and Spain has the vague notion he should get up and make it to the dinner table before Romano does something else drastic and confine him to the bed. Even if that's really what Spain craves at that point, he doesn't want Romano to know he's that far gone yet. Not after last time.

Then Romano is back and he's helping Spain sit up. He passes him a glass of water that Spain sips gratefully before leaving once more.

Spain can smell the delicious aromas of Italian cooking as Romano returns to the living room, holding a plate. He deposits it on the table, kneeling next to Spain.

“Eat. I don't care if it's three bites, but _eat_ ,” Romano says and it's almost gentle.

So Spain peers down at the plate and is glad to see that Romano didn't put all of his culinary talent into it. It would have gone to waste without a doubt. But Spain could handle pasta, so he lifts the fork to his lips and eats slowly.

He manages five bites before his stomach starts to complain and he sags back again the couch.

Romano doesn't say anything, but his hand brushes over Spain’s and he sighs.

“So what's it this time?” Romano asks because he always knows.

“Not sure.” Spain drops his head to Romano’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “I'm just tired.”

“You should've stayed in bed.” Yet, Romano doesn't move. “Idiot.”

Spain hums. He wants to sleep, right here near Romano. And it seems as if Romano can read his mind because he tells him to do just that.

***

He wakes to the sound of gunshots. Has to grab his knife, his axe, his gun. Quick, quick before they overrun us. Throw on chain mail, armour, a helmet. Where did he—

“Spain!”

Hands on his face, soft but firm. He can't see. It's too dark! He needs to—he needs to go! People are screaming! People are dying! He needs—

“Shit, Spain—”

Spain roughly removes the hands from his face and attempts to stand. He stumbles. Something—something hard is in his way and he trips, but he’s caught before he hits the ground.

“Jesus Christ.”

If only. If only he could be saved by Him. If only his people could be saved. They had to be saved!

Spain tries to escape from the hands again. His people—the gunshots are getting louder. He has to _move_ —has to save them!

“Antonio!”

He’s pulled into a hug, his head tucked underneath someone’s chin. Not someone, Romano—Lovino. Lovino is hugging him, first whispering soft Italian before he flows into Spanish. Lovino never speaks Spanish, not unless Antonio is a real mess and that hasn't happened since the Civil War—Oh.

He realizes belatedly that he's crying, but when he does, he breaks. He clutches at Lovino desperately, burying his head in the crook of his neck. He sobs and sobs and sobs. He didn't know a person could hold so many tears, but there seems no end to them.

Meanwhile Lovino continues to speak in Spanish, whispering everything and nothing in Antonio’s ears. At some point, even he runs out of words and starts kissing the top of Antonio’s head.

“It's okay,” he whispers, still in Spanish, in between kisses. “You're not there, Antonio. You're here, with me, in your living room, in the twenty-first century. It's all right.”

Antonio hiccups. He wants to say something, anything, but his throat has stopped working. So he just nuzzles closer, breathing in Lovino’s expensive aftershave.

It takes what feels like hours before the tears finally stop falling. Antonio swallows as Lovino continues to stroke his hair. The words have long since stopped, but he's still there, calming and steady.

He can feel Lovino draw in air to speak and he's almost afraid he's going to be told off, told to go to bed, alone. To let go of Lovino when all he wants is to be closer.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lovino asks, quietly, hesitantly even.

Antonio breathes out, closing his eyes for a moment. He doesn't even know what there was to talk about or even begin to explain. “I don't know,” he says after three false starts in which his voice had refused to cooperate.

Lovino shifts a little until Antonio catches the hint and moves sideways on Lovino’s laps, breathing a little easier, but still able to hide away in his neck.

“That's not an answer. Either you want to talk it about it or not,” Lovino says.

Antonio laughs shakily because for once it's Lovino being stern with him, extracting the answer from him like he normally has to with Lovino. Except Lovino’s fingers haven't stopped carding through his hair and it's all so _intimate_ ; before, the closest Lovino had allowed Antonio to be near when he was having a breakdown was allowing Antonio to hold his hand from across the table.

“Okay,” Antonio breathes. “I’d like to talk about it, but I don't know where to begin.”

“Better.” Lovino leans back a little, looking up at the ceiling, perhaps for advice. “Why don't you start with what you saw? You were speaking freakishly fast; I couldn't follow.”

Antonio swallows, leaning his head against Lovino’s shoulder. Lovino’s heartbeat was grounding and very, very soothing.

“Gunshots. I thought we were being attacked. All I heard were gunshots and screaming and people dying and I couldn't do anything, Lovi.”

Lovino sighs and places another kiss on top of Antonio’s head. He doesn't know where the sudden physicality comes from, but he never wants it to end now.

Oh, God. There was no going back after this now. He couldn't. Antonio couldn't handle doing the steps with Lovino again now that he has experienced this. He wants to dance in a relationship, not on the brink of one.

“Antonio,” Lovino says, moving just so he could look Antonio in the eyes. Even the darkness of his living room couldn't dim the gold that glittered in them like the gold that used to fill every corner of his house.

“Does that—do you—” As Lovino grasps for the right words, Antonio searches for the hand on his thigh and holds onto it. Lovino pauses, then presses his nose into Antonio’s hair. “Are they recurring?”

“The dreams?”

He waits for the softest of scoffs to leave Lovino’s throat, followed by the quiet, “Duh.” Good, as much as he likes this side of Lovi, he was starting to miss his snark just a little.

“Not that often. Just… sometimes,” he hesitates, then decides to hell with it. There was nothing left to lose when it came to Lovino, not after tonight. “Mostly when you're gone, really. You keep them away.”

That earns him a pinch in the ear and a huff. “How stupid.”

Antonio chances a glance up to confirm his suspicions and yes, Lovino is blushing very, very hard. He smiles and, without really thinking about it, he presses his lips against Lovino’s throat.

“Really stupid,” Lovino mumbles.

“The stupidest,” Antonio agrees and pinches Lovino’s side in a small retaliation. “But it's the truth, Lovi.”

Lovino doesn't say anything to that. He just pulls Antonio closer.

They sit silently for a little while. Antonio starts to drowse again, though he's somewhat afraid that if he falls asleep again, he’ll have another nightmare.

But it seems as if Lovino has gotten very good at reading his mind and asks, “Anything else you'd like to share?”

“I bought a new turtle plushie.”

Another pinch, this time in his cheek, long and hard. “About your dreams, dumbass.”

Antonio hums, waiting for Lovino to continue petting his hair. When he does, Antonio says, “They're not linked to any particular time period. People just die and I can't do anything. They always die differently.” He thinks for a moment. “The worst is when I see them burn.”

Lovino sighs his name. He leans back his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed in thought.

“Sometimes I recognize faces.” Antonio feels the urge to cry again, but he doubts he has any tears left. He should probably drink some water, but that involves leaving the warmth and comfort of Lovino and he really doesn't want to. “Most often it's you.”

Lovino looks at him, and Antonio can't read the expression he's wearing. It's as if he's trying to go for a blank one, but there are too many emotions swirling in his head. It wouldn't be the first time.

“Okay,” Lovino eventually says. It's clearly not what he meant to say because he grinds his teeth. “I—Just…” he pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back from Antonio. “Why—”

“Because—”

“ _No_ ,” Lovino says sharply. “Let me finish.”

Antonio swallows, shrinking just a little in on himself. Lovino scowls at that, fingers curling in Antonio’s hair. He struggles with his expression for a moment however, and manages to smooth it out into something calmer, nicer. Lovino was truly trying to be considerate (not that Antonio needed convincing of that; he has known for centuries). He waits until Antonio relaxes again before continuing, softer this time.

“What I meant is: have they always been there?”

“The dreams about you?”

Lovino purses his lips and Antonio knows he's teetering on dangerous territory, but they need to move forward. And to do that, Antonio might have to—

“Don't change the subject.” Lovino’s voice is clipped. He does not want to move forward. Lovino has a very strange fear against moving forward. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the Mezzogiorno can't move forward due to the economic divide with the north. Maybe Lovino is just very complicated.

“Lovi,” Antonio says. “You know as well as I that the dreams never leave.” He sighs and closes his eyes, listening to Lovino’s heartbeat. “But neither do you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Lovino mutters.

“That you're just as constant as the dreams, but the dreams are not constant when you're with me.”

Lovino is quiet, but his hand is trailing through the hairs at the back of his neck. He pulls Antonio just a little closer and says, “Then sleep, stupid. I'm here.”

Antonio smiles as Lovino presses one last kiss to his head. While their position is far from comfortable, and Antonio will wake the next morning with more pains than it was probably worth it, he feels much, much more at peace than he has felt in centuries.

“I love you,” Antonio mumbles into the fabric of Lovino’s shirt. He isn't sure whether Lovino even caught it, but he imagines that Lovino tightens his hold just a bit more as he drifts off to a dreamless sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Squints at the things I’ve written for this week*  
> Me: hmmm… Lovino: Antonio = “stupid” (lovingly)
> 
> Anyway! That wraps it up! Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed my contributions to this year’s Spamano Week! I certainly enjoyed writing them! It was a really good chance for me to play around with my writing and experiment a little, especially with styles and characters.
> 
> I’m actually really curious as to which one was your favourite (I certainly have one myself)! Leave a comment here or on the corresponding fic OR you could go to my writing Tumblr: writingsofasnowywolff (shameless plug) to shout at me there! I’d love to talk a little more about these stories if your interested, so if you have any questions or would like to learn more about the universes they’re set in, maybe go check it out :D (especially because AO3 doesn’t have a personal messaging system, so it’s easier answering asks (if, you know, tumblr doesn’t eat them))


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